The Wind and the Rain
by Eienvine
Summary: A series of drabbles featuring Nathan, Audrey and Duke, inspired by the episodes of season 2.
1. A Tale of Two Audreys

AN: I recently fell in love with Haven, and the second season (which I watched, in its entirety, in about two days) was so excellent that each episode made me want to write something about it. So I decided to go through the season from beginning to end and write a few drabbles about each episode, mostly inspired by the relationships between the main characters. Despite what the fic info says, it will be about Duke as much as Audrey and Nathan; however, only lets you choose two characters, and I chose our favorite cops because I ship them so very, very much. But Duke is fantastic, too.

The first chapter will cover the first episode of the season, A Tale of Two Audreys.

. . . . . .

She's more willing to consider the possibility that she's not the real Audrey Parker than he is. Now that she knows she used to be Lucy, the notion of identity seems fluid to her.

But not him. He needs her to be Audrey. With the Troubles returning and his father dead, he needs stability, in the form of the one person he trusts, the one person he loves: his partner, Audrey Parker. What he doesn't understand—yet—is that no matter what name she uses, she'll have the same heart, the same soul. And he'll still love her.

. . . . . .

She feels that cops should be fair and impartial, protecting everyone equally.

So when she looks back later on the firstborn nearly dying, she pretends that the sight of Nathan collapsing didn't bother her just a bit more than everyone else. She pretends that the smile that came to her lips when she saw that everyone had survived didn't grow just a bit bigger when she saw Nathan being helped up.

Subconsciously, though, she knows that nobody would actually fault her for being more concerned about her partner than about a stranger. So maybe she's pretending for her own sake.

. . . . . .

It's been a long time since you and Nathan were friends. Back when you were younger and stupider you made some mistakes and destroyed a friendship, and you're not happy about it but there's so much water under that bridge that you've given up fixing things.

But when you realize he might die it bothers you more than you'd expect, and after a few minutes of hovering uselessly, you finally think to push the Rev out of the way and kneel over Nathan's still form. If he's going to die, the last face he sees will be friendly.

Well, friendlyish.

. . . . . .

It's been a long time since you and Duke were friends. He used and betrayed you, and maybe you've been unforgiving but it's not like he's ever sought forgiveness.

So he's the last person you want to see at your dad's grave. You didn't even let Parker help, because you knew you'd be a mess and you didn't want anyone else to see that moment of weakness. And yet here he is, your old friend, offering help and sympathy and maybe the tiniest olive branch. And it's probably just your vulnerable emotional state, but deep down you're glad he's there.

. . . . . .


	2. Fear & Loathing

Thanks for the reviews!

Season 2 Episode 2, Fear & Loathing

. . . . . .

If anyone had overheard Audrey's words to Nathan at the wake, they would have been shocked. The man's father, his only living family, just died, and his partner's making fun of his public speaking skills.

But the truth is that Audrey knows Nathan better than anyone else, and she knows he doesn't need sympathy. He's a rock, like the New England ground beneath his feet; he'll survive, with or without well-meant platitudes. What he needs is a reminder that he won't just survive, he'll thrive—what he needs is a reason to laugh again. That's where she comes in.

. . . . . .

Audrey's never had a sister. Or maybe she has; how could she possibly be sure about that? The point is, she can't remember ever having had a sister, or even a close friend—someone with whom she shares a lifetime of experiences and jokes and joys. Neither can the other Audrey. So while it may be bizarre for the two of them to be growing closer, to joke about memories that exist in two minds, Audrey secretly enjoys having someone to share with, and given the circumstances, it's a safe bet that the other Audrey feels the same way.

. . . . . .

It's bittersweet to watch Nathan touch everything. It's sweet to see him so happy, see him finding such joy in simple things. And yet she fears this reprieve won't last, that any moment he's going to lose feeling again and the light that's dawning in his eyes is going to dim. And she wonders, is it worth it to taste the good, knowing it's going to make the bad that much worse when it comes? But as she watches him stroke a rose, a look of wonder on his face, she knows she couldn't deprive him of this momentary joy.

. . . . . .

Is it weird that he wishes it'd been weird for her to kiss his cheek? At least that would mean it'd been significant to her, rather than completely unremarkable, as was apparently the case.

It was remarkable to him, though. It's been months but that kiss is still the most vivid memory in his head. And now he has the whole world available to feel, but the thing he still most longs to touch is her lips. Which probably led to that awkward comment about lip skin. And now everything's weird (except the one thing he wishes had been so).

. . . . . .

She's long suspected that his habitual quiet is caused in some way by his Trouble, and now she has proof: since regaining feeling, Nathan has been downright chatty. And it's loosened his inhibitions, too; he's saying odd things, about the skin on your lips and about the time she kissed him. She cuts that conversation off quickly; there's no need to talk about it. No need to think about it. Because it was merely a sympathetic gesture and it's not going to happen again, no matter how strangely enticing it is to watch him run that rose over his lips.

. . . . . .

Someday she'll find out what he saw when he looked at Jackie. Maybe his fear is something he saw as a cop, or maybe it's irrational, like her clown with the teeth. Whatever it is, he avoids her questions, and she's given up asking—for now.

The one thing she knows for sure is that everyone else who saw Jackie screamed and ran and had heart attacks; even the other Audrey fell apart. But Nathan—it threw him, whatever it was, but he didn't run, didn't lash out. Someday she'll tell him how impressive she thinks that was.

. . . . . .

On some level he'd expected his return to normalcy to be short-lived, only because that would be just his luck. But to hear Audrey actually say aloud that his Trouble might return—that hurts, more than he'd expected. But he's always refused to let his affliction get the better of him, so he presses on, building theory with his partner, trying not to let on how upsetting he finds this news, trying not to sound bitter.

"Who'd want mine? Who'd want to go around not being able to feel anything?"

Okay, maybe he isn't great at this not-sounding-bitter thing.

. . . . . .

"The only thing I hate more than small towns are home towns." That's been Duke's creed for years, so perhaps it's no surprise Ian chose him as getaway driver. What is surprising is how much it bothered him when Ian targeted Haven, and how little it bothered him when Ian died. Certainly he dislikes unnecessary death, and certainly he dislikes losing old friends, but if that's the price for saving the town, he won't be shedding any tears. Much as he hates to admit it, after a few years back in Haven, he's started to change his mind about it.

. . . . . .

The funny thing is that when Jackie hugs him to thank him for curing her Trouble, he can't feel it. He knows he made the right choice; he knows that giving the girl back her life is his job as a cop, as a decent human being. He knows that if he'd let Ian take his affliction, then everything he touched would be a terrible reminder of a girl locked away from human contact. He knows this. But as he returns the hug he can't feel, he wishes, just for a moment, that he didn't always do the right thing.

. . . . . .

He's doing his Nathan thing. He's being the brave, stoic cop, unfazed by the knowledge that after a moment of believing he could be cured forever, he is banished again to his world of numbness. And knowing Nathan, there's a good chance that he's genuinely as calm about it as he's acting. Because that's him: stalwart, good-hearted Nathan.

But your heart's aching, even if his is not, and you touch his hand. It's not much, but you can reach out to him in a way nobody else in the world can, and in a moment like this he deserves it.

. . . . . .


	3. Love Machine

Season 2 Episode 3, Love Machine

. . . . . .

She's an interloper, reminiscing about things that matter to someone else because she doesn't know what matters to her, because if she casts off false memories she'll have no memories at all.

The other Audrey once lay awake in a lake house, listening to wind chimes that reminded her where she was; meanwhile, somewhere out there was a girl—woman?—who had no such luxury. Audrey lives in a fog, and trying to piece together her life leaves her as lost as the other Audrey was as a child. Where are the wind chimes to remind her what's real?

. . . . . .

He wouldn't admit it, but he enjoys being called "Chief." It's not about power, of course—Nathan's never sought power in his life. But (and he'd definitely never admit this) he likes that he's following in his father's footsteps. Things were never easy between the Wuornos men, especially there at the end, but now that the man is gone Nathan misses him and the way he took care of Haven. He can't apologize to his father now, but maybe, by performing well the job that the chief loved so much, he can pay tribute to a complicated, frustrating, admirable man.

. . . . . .

It was true, Evie had been fun. But she'd taught him that isn't enough.

It was fun dating Evie; it was fun running cons with Evie. But being married requires more. It requires trust and loyalty, and though she made him laugh, it turned out that she was never looking out for him the way he was for her. For underneath her fun was a complete lack of character, the kind of lack that allowed her to turn on her husband without batting an eye.

He'd learned his lesson: having fun is great, but having a real relationship is better.

. . . . . .

Not much bothers Evidence Ryan—not the cons she pulls, not the people she hurts, not the fact that her marriage was an unmitigated disaster. She's in town on a mission, and she's sure that her confidence and glib tongue will see her through.

And in order to preserve that confidence, she ignores the fact that Duke is so eager to avoid her, so pleased to have their conversation interrupted. She'll get his devotion again, she's positive. In the meantime, she'll avoid letting him see that his constant rejection is turning out to be the one thing that bothers her.

. . . . . .

The truth is, Duke would eventually have helped the other Audrey, even without her file. He'd have made her convince him and gotten her to promise him a favor in return, but he would have done it.

This is partly because he likes the other Audrey—as much as he likes any fed—but also because he was being honest when he told Evie that he's evolving. He's not the self-absorbed kid she married; he's matured, and being around Evie is reminding him just how selfish he was and just how far he's come. And Evie refuses to see it.

. . . . . .

Maybe this is what possession's like—her fingers hitting the keys without her telling them to.

And possession is practically what it is, right? Her body is host to memories—ideas—beings, really, that aren't her. She assumes if she peeled back layers of Audrey and Lucy and who knows who else, she'd find who she was originally.

But sometimes she fears that if she did, there'd be nothing underneath. Maybe she's not a normal girl possessed by other identities; maybe her body's only ever been a hollow shell to be filled with half-existences. She thinks she prefers false memories.

. . . . . .

Out of the haze, Audrey Two finds a name—Brad—and you feel a pang of envy. She's had a dysfunctional life and yet she's found someone she loves so much that she remembers his name even when she can't remember her own.

You had the same life—sort of—and what do you have? Nothing. Two friends, which is new for you, but whose name would you remember when you've forgotten everything else?

Well, Nathan's, of course, but that doesn't count—he's your partner. And it's good to have a partner, but why shouldn't you have love as well?

. . . . . .

It surprised her how much it hurt to lose the other Audrey. "Almost sisters" started as a joke, but in the weeks they knew each other it became true, and for two girls who'd never had anyone, that friendship was precious.

Now Audrey Two was going back home without her memories, another innocent victim of the mysteries that surrounded Haven and one ageless woman whose life was an endless, wearying puzzle. And as she stood with tears in her eyes, watching her friend leave, Audrey wondered for the first time if this burden was too much for her to bear.

. . . . . .

She seems hurt, genuinely hurt, that he lied about the file. Or maybe she isn't; who can tell? She's a skilled liar, and even marrying her didn't teach him to catch her lies. But if he had to wager, he'd say the tears threatening to fall were real.

Not that he cares. She ruined his life; is he supposed to feel bad that he kept something from her? He never invited her to Haven and he never asked for her help.

But even so, as she storms away from the Gull, he knows those tears are going to haunt him.

. . . . . .

He hates to hear her talk like that—like the only thing that matters in her life is learning who she is, like the life she's built here is insignificant compared to the past she's searching for. He hates when she says the reason she stays in Haven is to solve her personal mystery. Because what happens when she gets answers? Will she leave Haven when it has no more secrets for her? Will she leave him?

Of course he still helps her—he loves her, and that means making sacrifices. But he hates to hear her talk like that.

. . . . . .

AN: The fourth-to-last drabble was inspired by this quote from an interview with Emily Rose: "Audrey's jumping into this relationship with Chris Brody (**Jason Priestley**), I think, out of a dysfunctional sort of feeling like, who is she and if this other Audrey could have a relationship, why can't she and what is that like?" It certainly makes the Chris thing suddenly make sense.


	4. Sparks and Recreation

AN: Sorry about the very long delay in updating; I ended up moving and it took up a great deal of my time.

Season 2 episode 4, Sparks and Recreation

. . . . . .

It's got four bases and a white ball but it's so much more than a mere baseball game to Nathan. It's a treasured childhood memory, an honored Haven tradition. It's a chance to show Audrey that there's more to Haven than the Troubles, and there's more to Nathan than a stoically numb detective, and, by extension, there's more to her than mysteries and false memories. And as they sit side by side in the warm sunlight, just another couple enjoying a day in their hometown, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, someday there'll be more to them than just partners.

. . . . . .

Nathan's lost more sleep over the Rev than he'd ever admit; things are going to get worse in Haven before they get better, he's sure, and as interim chief and unofficial advocate for the Troubled, it all falls on his shoulders. And in this battle, the Rev is his greatest enemy.

But in one thing they are united. "Hi-ho Sea Dogs," says the Rev.

"Hi-ho Sea Dogs," says Nathan, relieved that this meeting will not turn into a confrontation. For one brief moment, for the biggest game of the year, there are more important things than the fate of Haven.

. . . . . .

At one time, Nathan would've said his father was the most upstanding person he knew. He was the police chief, after all, and Nathan knew from long experience that the man was as strict as they come.

But lately Nathan had received a host of new revelations about the Chief. And now this one: he'd employed a cleaner, of all things, a burly stranger who made problems disappear and recommended creativity in police reports.

And even more off-putting than this new development was Nathan's realization that as his father's replacement, he'd have to grow comfortable with these methods as well.

. . . . . .

She's always known what a steady, honest person Nathan is, but she didn't think about it much until those qualities were gone. Her partner never gives an inch, never backs down from asking hard questions, never lets someone else influence his decisions—until now. Suddenly he's all praise and flattery, grinning idiotically at the mayor, letting the man tell him how to solve the case.

And that's when she knows something's wrong. Because this is her partner, and she knows him better than anyone, and she knows he's a better man than the fool the mayor is making of him.

. . . . . .

Of course she thinks this is about money. That's Evidence Ryan for you—looking for the payday in everything. But this is so much more important; this is his survival, and she's in the way. So he does something uncharacteristic: he opens up. He explains what's weighing so heavily on his mind; if you read between the lines, you'd even see his fear.

And it doesn't even make a dent. Either she doesn't believe him or she wants to annoy him, but she ignores his confession and invites herself along. And he sighs and muses that Evi will never change.

. . . . . .

Chris Brody has never been much of a people person. A therapist once suggested that, feeling that his father rejected him by leaving his mother, Chris lashes out at those around him, hurting them before they can hurt him. Chris disagrees; he's pretty sure it's just that people are idiots, and he's happy to avoid them. So when his father dies and Chris gains his unnatural popularity, it's a curse, not a blessing.

So maybe that's why he's drawn to Audrey Parker. She's completely unimpressed by him—could take him or leave him—and that feels normal. It feels right.

. . . . . .

He was sure, after Evi, that he wouldn't miss anything about her—certainly not the betrayal, or the selfishness that her supposed love for him never completely conquered.

But being around her again reminded him there were things about her he still admired, things that made some treacherous part of his heart echo with distant memory—like her clever, glib tongue, about to pry information from the Teagues. And as she walked past him into the house, he couldn't help glancing at her retreating . . . back. Yes, there were some things about Evi he didn't mind having back in his life.

. . . . . .

Later, when he reflects back on that conversation in the hospital and everything that came after it, he'll be furious with himself. It wasn't his fault, of course; he was still in the haze that followed exposure to the Brody Trouble, and the thought of Chris "getting under Audrey's skin" was mildly amusing and didn't a great man deserve a great girl?

But in the future, when she's happy with Chris and his heart is aching, all he'll be able to think is that he saw those early hints of her feelings for another and all he did was chuckle.

. . . . . .

Con after con: that's their relationship now (and maybe how it always was, even in the good times). So she's not surprised he lied to her about Dave, because she lied to him about Vince. Because that's how they work.

What's she's not sure of is whether she was conning him at the hospital. The conversation was a tactic—everything she does is a tactic—but somewhere in the lies, truths began to emerge: she misses Duke, she misses when they were together—truths she usually hides from herself, suddenly irretrievably exposed. And suddenly she doesn't know what to believe.

. . . . . .

_Omnia vincit amor_: love conquers all. What a lie.

Your love for Evi conquered nothing. Even now, when she knows you're trying to save your life, she cares more that the box looks valuable. Even when you kept vigil by her hospital bed, like a friend or a lover, her tearfully affectionate words to you were just another con.

And the worst of it is, you bought her confession, just for a moment; she still has the power to make you believe her lies. So maybe what love managed to conquer was you—you and what little sense you have.

. . . . . .

Nathan and Audrey are usually in sync, both on and off the job. Usually they know what the other is thinking, what the other means when they speak.

But this time they're not. "She needs a new start. She needs relationships that keep her . . . grounded," Audrey says of the Troubled nurse, and they both know those words are true of Audrey as well, but that's where the empathy ends. Because Nathan glances at her, smiling shyly, before returning to his truck. And Audrey stands a moment, lost in thought, then turns away and walks into the churchyard to find Chris.

. . . . . .

Maybe it's that it's been a while since a guy looked at her like that. She's married to her work, and she's okay with that, but there's still something about having a man look at her like she's a woman, not a cop, that secretly thrills her.

Maybe it's that seeing that the other Audrey was in a relationship, despite her messy life, makes her wonder why she goes home alone every night. Doesn't she deserve happiness too?

Whatever the reason, as she watches Chris's team run onto the field, there's a smile on her face that she can't hide.

. . . . . .


	5. Roots

Season 2 Episode 2, Roots

. . . . . .

Chris is blunt, he's brash, and when he pursues what he wants, it's like using a brick to kill a mosquito. On their first date, in the same conversation he expresses his utter disdain for almost everyone and his unashamed desire for her. And to her surprise she likes it. Her life is a mystery, her job is wading through secrets, and Nathan, the person she spends all her time with, is silent as the grave. It's refreshing to for once have someone say exactly what's on his mind. And it doesn't hurt that what's on his mind is her.

. . . . . .

It won't occur to him until later that she introduced herself as Evie Crocker. He hasn't heard that name much; even when they were together, on the rare occasion she wasn't using an alias she'd use her maiden name. It was easier that way; Evidence Ryan had a hard-won reputation in their world.

But Evidence Crocker, that's someone he doesn't know. He can imagine her: a wife, a friend, an average girl living a peaceful life in Haven (well, peaceful for Haven, anyway). And though he fights it hard, he finds himself warming to the idea of this Evidence Crocker.

. . . . . .

If Dave and Vince notice that his speech about why Parker's not on a date sounds rehearsed, they kindly don't say anything. It sounds rehearsed to Nathan's ears, probably because he's had this conversation with himself every ten minutes for the last three days. Nine times out of ten he convinces himself it's not a date—it just wouldn't be like her—and for the most part that's enough to keep at bay the fear that whispers, that one time out of ten, that maybe he was wrong when he thought she'd appreciate a guy who gave her breathing room.

. . . . . .

When he says it's the worst date ever, he's being melodramatic—he's been on absolutely terrible dates—but he is genuinely annoyed with how it's going. But he puts up with it for Audrey. And it's not just that Audrey's gorgeous; it's that she treats him like a normal person. When he has the Trouble, people treat him like a god; when he doesn't, people treat him like a jerk (which is his fault, he admits). But Audrey sees past both the charm and the acerbity. And a girl like that is worth putting up with some fawning wedding guests.

. . . . . .

Moira's not stupid. She knows what her fiance is, knows his faults, knows how greedy he can be, knows that her father dislikes him.

But she also knows his kindness, his humor, his heart, his passion, all the things that make him lovable—or at least she thinks she does, until her father is dead and all evidence points to her fiance as the killer. And as she realizes that she's just lost one of the most important men in her life and that she's about to lose the other, she wonders how much you can ever really know anyone.

. . . . . .

All right, maybe this is the worst date ever after all. He's had some bad ones, but this is the first where he's been trapped in a barn by an overgrown plant and offended his date by calling her (and himself) a human aberration.

But this situation is too much for him—it's madness. He's a scientist; he needs to approach things rationally, even after all he's seen—_especially _after all he's seen. The murky mysteries of the Troubles are just not something he cares to explore, and he thinks that it's highly unfortunate that Audrey's so fixated on them.

. . . . . .

You wouldn't have guessed it if you'd known her at the time, but Evie spent a lot of time thinking about Duke after they separated. A song, a stranger, a quiet night would spark a memory, and she'd find herself wondering what her husband was doing without her.

But of all the scenarios she imagined for Duke, the one that never even crossed her mind was that he'd evolved. And while she didn't envy him his new-found selflessness—lots of work for people who didn't deserve it—she was shocked at the realization that her husband may have outgrown her.

. . . . . .

He lets himself consider Mexico, just for a moment, but he knows he won't say yes. It is, as he tells her, not that simple.

It's complicated because he still doesn't trust her, but it's more than that. It's complicated because of Audrey, because of Nathan. It's complicated because of his boat and the Gray Gull and the familiar smell of Rosemary's donuts. It's complicated because finally he has a proper life where he doesn't have to sleep with one eye open. It's complicated because he's happy in Haven.

Come to think of it, it's not that complicated after all.

. . . . . .

Duke Crocker is an excellent person to have on your side in a tight spot, you decide as you lay slightly stunned in the protection of his arms. Unlike the crying Moira, the bickering Dom and Beverly, and the argumentative Chris, Duke gets things done, whether it's providing useful information, scoping out the building, or knocking you out of the way of killer vines. You wouldn't have guessed, when you two first met, that you'd be glad to have him around, but here you are, alive because of him. How lucky for you that first impressions are so often wrong.

. . . . . .

But Chris is pulling his weight too. He's not happy to be here—you can't really blame him—but once he gets past his need to apply the scientific method to every situation, he's pretty useful. His Trouble is good for calming people, but even better, more than once today his keen eye and factual mind have come in handy. You're not saying you want to partner with him on the force, but there's definitely something sexy about a man who can handle himself in a dangerous situation. At least this disastrous date has let you watch him in action.

. . . . . .

Rarely had Nathan been so wrong about something. Silly as it sounded, he'd felt like he was coming to the rescue as he fought those vines, like a knight in a story. He was going to save the villagers and the princess, and if doing so interrupted the princess's date with the ill-tempered wizard, so be it.

But he was wrong on all counts. His entrance was neither dashing nor heroic, the people had already discovered how to save themselves, and the princess and the wizard were now holding hands. The knight decided he should have stayed in his castle.

. . . . . .

Four couples and one solitary figure went through that door.

Dom and Bev first, radiating regret and reunited love. Moira and Peter next, their connection tainted by distrust but tinged with hope of forgiveness. Then Duke and Evie, their bond ravaged by years apart, yet all but incapable of being entirely destroyed. Audrey and Chris after that, shy but firm in the conviction that this wouldn't be the last time they touched.

Finally Nathan alone, still reeling from the sight of Audrey and Chris's joined hands. If Audrey had looked she might have noticed him trembling. But she never looked.

. . . . . .

She hadn't really expected it to work, this going to Mexico idea, and it was all a means to an end anyway. But still she wondered what would have happened if he'd said yes.

He'd known from the moment she asked about Mexico that he'd say no; they're not that couple anymore, and he's got so much more on his plate right now than love. But still he wondered what would have happened if he'd said yes.

Maybe it would have been great. Maybe it would have ended disastrously. But Duke and Evidence Crocker would never get to find out.

. . . . . .

There's a moment when he's stumbling over an apology where Audrey knows she's going to kiss him. They're two people who are terrible at dating, both completely uncomfortable with making small talk over dinner, and if two such people finding each other isn't a sign, she doesn't know what is. His speech about wanting her for her is icing on the cake; she's unaccustomed to being wanted or loved and it turns out she's a sucker for it. So while the fact that she's on this date still surprises her, the fact that she decides to kiss him does not.

. . . . . .

Why does Nathan call Audrey? He prefers to pretend he doesn't know. He prefers to pretend that he needed her input on writing up this case and that maybe he wants to talk to her about Lucy Ripley. That's better than admitting that the Teagues' words shook him, that he's spent the evening imagining every way her date could end and he's eager to interrupt any and all of them.

But when she doesn't answer her phone—Audrey _always _answers her phone—he realizes he's too late. And though he tries, he can't pretend that this is not killing him.

. . . . . .


	6. Audrey Parker's Day Off

AN: E.M. Forster once said, "How do I know what I think until I see what I say?" And now that I see what I wrote about this episode, two things have become very clear to me: first, that this is my favorite episode of Haven, and second, that I really hate Chris Brody. I tried to be fair to him and instead just slammed him the whole time. Poor guy. It's not your fault you're not Nathan.

This chapter is significantly longer than any other I've written so far, and that's with me forcing myself not to write half the stuff I wanted to. I really just couldn't help myself. This episode is marvelous.

Season 2 Episode 6, Audrey Parker's Day Off

. . . . . .

Anyone who knew Duke before he came back to Haven would have been shocked to see him standing outside the Gull that morning. The dashing Duke Crocker, smuggler and conman, was drawing cartoon tacos on a blackboard and scolding his tenant about her tardy rent check. Duke himself would've been shocked could he have stood back and taken in the whole tableau. But this was his reality: Duke the pirate had become Duke the proprietor.

But then, anyone who knew Duke would also have seen how content he was as he added a chalk mustache to one of the tacos.

. . . . . .

Audrey Parker is a walking contradiction, and that fascinates you. She's delicate but tough: a rosy-cheeked cherub who could knock a man unconscious with ease. She cares deeply about people but is rather terrible with them—witness the perplexed children at Career Day as proof. And the more that you get to know her, the more intrigued you are. She's a puzzle—a beautiful, sexy puzzle—and you're enjoying trying to solve her better than you've ever enjoyed almost anything. And it never occurs to you to wonder if you'll be as interested in her once there's no mystery left.

. . . . . .

Chris Brody is a hard man to please. The people of Haven adore him and he hates it—hates the fawning and constant attention. But Audrey, with her single-minded devotion to her job, gives him neither fawning nor constant attention, and he hates that too. Maybe this desire for undivided attention from the only person who doesn't give it is a sign of maturity: he only wants affection he's earned. Or maybe it's childishness, a petulant demand for the one toy out of reach.

But Chris doesn't think about any of this. He just frowns as Audrey's phone beeps yet again.

. . . . . .

Being a cop was never going to be easy, never going to be pretty. Nathan knew this before he joined, knew it from a million stories told and a million more left unsaid by his father. So he forces himself to examine the bloody child on the pavement without wincing, because that's his job and he made that decision a long time ago.

But though he knows Audrey made the same choice, he finds himself stopping her from entering the crime scene. There's nothing more she could do there, and there's no reason for that sight to haunt both their dreams.

. . . . . .

Her first and only instinct is to go to Nathan for help. Part of her wonders why she didn't try to explain it to Chris first—he was there with her, and they're supposed to mean something to each other these days—but Nathan is the only choice that feels right. He's the chief of police, he's her partner, he's the only one who understands the Troubles like she does, and he's her best friend. And when he accepts her story immediately, unquestioningly, she knows the most important reason she went to him: he will always trust and support her.

. . . . . .

As you round the corner you're a cop, but when you see the figure lying on the street, suddenly you're a friend, a helpless girl shocked and breathless as you reach out with shaking hands to touch your second-best friend in the whole world. And as you gather yourself enough to shout at the crowd, looking for witnesses, you realize that being a cop, all of your training, is meaningless, because it's not enough to stop this tragedy. You face a lot of death but never like this, and nothing could have prepared you for the heartbreak of this moment.

. . . . . .

Nathan's life has been entwined with Duke's since they were children, so when he sees his bloodied form, he's not just seeing the man he tolerates for Audrey's sake—he sees his childhood best friend and worst enemy, the boy he swore never to forgive but still desperately missed. He sees the future, too—one without hope of reconciliation for the former friends.

His mouth moves uselessly, trying fruitlessly to find words of regret and apology. Duke cuts him off with a weak smile and a "shut up" and for a moment it's like old times. But only for a moment.

. . . . . .

She didn't know what Duke was to her until he was gone. But when she wakes with the pain of his death still vibrating through her chest, she finds herself rushing downstairs, convinced she won't be able to breathe until she sees him alive and whole.

And there he is, drawing tacos and grumbling about rent, and without thinking she's throwing her arms around him, making sure he's real and solid under her fingertips. And it's like a light that had been extinguished has turned back on, and she thanks whoever's out there for giving her another chance at the day.

. . . . . .

Audrey stuck in your second-favorite Bill Murray movie? Not the craziest thing you've ever heard, not around Haven, and it's not too hard for you believe it, especially with her fortune-telling act. But even without the precedent of the Troubles, you'd believe Audrey because she's obviously deeply upset about something, and besides, you trust her more than anyone else in the world—that's how you are together. (And while you're on the subject, it warms your heart that she apparently chose you over Chris to confide in.)

But you being "pretty upset" over Duke's death? That one you have trouble believing.

. . . . . .

Later, when she looks back on this repeated day, she'll remember a lot of uncertainty and grief: the fear of not knowing who the next victim will be, the pain of discovering that it's someone she loves.

But she'll also remember the one thing that stayed steady, the rock that anchored her during the storm: Nathan. That every time she told him what had happened, he believed her. That he convinced her every time that they'd find a way to figure this out together. And that she never would have made it through that day with her sanity without his support.

. . . . . .

She'd taken care of Chris and Duke, and it didn't occur to her that there was someone else this day could take from her. She'd always thought of herself and Nathan as somehow outside the Troubles—aware of them and therefore out of harm's way. She'd foolishly never even considered that getting her partner involved might put him at risk, or she wouldn't have done it, not in a thousand years. Because Duke and Chris were important to her but Nathan was something special, something closer than skin, and if he died she didn't know how she could handle it.

. . . . . .

Audrey's always saying that just because you can't feel it doesn't mean you're not hurt. Apparently she was right, because even without the pain you sense your body shutting down, your movements becoming sluggish, your vision darkening.

It's disconcerting, in a way, this senseless march into the void, how your body can't figure out why it's dying. But there, something through the numbness: the feeling of Audrey's hands on you, grounding you momentarily on the earth before you start floating. And that's a comfort, that in your last moments you'll feel the woman you love holding you as you slip away.

. . . . . .

Nathan Wuornos died like he lived: stoic, quiet, unflinching, good-humoredly self-deprecating. He even went down trying to solve his own death, providing details about the car, apologizing for not getting the license plate number.

And Audrey held his body and prayed for the day to end, prayed that this day would reset like the others. Because between work and the Troubles and drinks at the Gull and pancakes for dinner, Nathan had made a place for himself in her soul, and if that piece of her was ripped out, she feared she'd start to bleed inside. She feared she'd never heal.

. . . . . .

Like anyone, Audrey's been known to rail against the mundane on occasion, to bore of her predictable, routine life. But when she runs into the police station and sees Nathan pouring himself a cup of coffee—when she takes it from his hands and tests it the way she's done a million times on a million mornings—when she watches him standing there looking just like he always does and just being blessedly alive, suddenly she's okay with routine. If routine means Nathan's here with her and not lying in his own blood on the pavement, then she loves routine.

. . . . . .

As she talks about the child dying, she seems bothered. As she relates Duke's death, she seems genuinely upset. Is it crazy that you hope her retelling of your death will distress her? That maybe watching you die will have convinced her to dump Chris and fall into your arms?

Crazy or not, it doesn't happen; she seems more worried about the cut on her own hand than about you. But then she grabs your hand, her eyes bright, and begs you to stay safe. "I've already seen you die once," she quavers. And your ridiculous heart starts to hope again.

. . . . . .

She's going to cost him his job one of these days, when one of her crazy theories is wrong and they realize they've impounded all the beige sedans in town for no good reason. But he doesn't feel wrong in always trusting her. Maybe it's because she embodies what he's long felt: that helping the Troubled may be more important than police work. Or maybe it's because when she stands near him his breath gets unsteady and he has to force himself not to reach out and stroke her hair. Those two reasons blend together more and more these days.

. . . . . .

"Just promise you'll clear out in time. I don't—"

He's not sure himself how he planned to finish that sentence. "I don't want to have to get used to a new partner" if he was feeling funny, or "I don't want to lose a good officer" if he was feeling professional. "I don't want to lose you" if he was feeling honest, or "I don't know how to be without you" if he was feeling brave.

But she doesn't want to hear any of it. "I know."

So maybe it'd be "I don't know what's wrong between you and me," in the end.

. . . . . .

You've been told more than once that you're difficult, but you've got nothing on Audrey Parker. She pawns you off on Duke and refuses to say why or where she's going, and when you try to do something nice for her, she just rushes you away so she can get back to whatever is so important. You know she's got police business but this constant secrecy is getting to be too much to bear.

But you're stubborn too, and your stubborn mind refuses to stop caring for Audrey. So when you see that car speeding toward her, you don't even hesitate.

. . . . . .

By the time Chris dies, she feels like a limp rag. All the sorrow has been squeezed from her by the last two deaths, leaving her empty and spent, so although she grieves, she can't find the energy to do it properly; the grief she feels must compete with sudden bone-deep weariness. So as she waits for the day to reset, as she embraces Chris when he wakes her, she can do little more than tremble. And she knows she needs to end this day, because if she has to watch one more friend die, she will surely go insane.

. . . . . .

He'd known he was different long before he was diagnosed. When he got married things were better for a while, and then they got worse than ever, because his wife never understood him. He tried to control his compulsions, but the more he tried the more she seemed distressed by his behavior. And when she filed for divorce he knew he'd been right: when he didn't get things exactly right, terrible things happened.

And now, as he watched that day repeat, he knew that once again he'd gotten something wrong, and terrible things were happening, and it was all his fault.

. . . . . .

It's funny how hers is the only touch he can feel, while his is the only touch that can reach her through her anxiety and pain and bring her back to earth. It's funny how she shares everything important and challenging in her life with him, but her heart with someone else. But what's not funny is that officer appearing right then with case information, right when he's getting to touch her and she's properly looking at him—not as a partner but as a person—for the first time since she started dating Chris. That's not funny at all.

. . . . . .

That final death was the hardest. Anson was nearly a stranger, but his loss broke her heart. It was partly that he died because of her, and partly that he died because he loved his daughter so much—a daughter who'd never see her father again.

And it was partly that his death was a reminder that the Troubles that loomed over Haven tore lives apart so easily, and sometimes the only way to end it was death. And she thought, not for the first time, that something had to be done, or Haven would continue this cycle of tragedy forever.

. . . . . .

He's not stupid; he knows there's a lot she's not telling him about what happened today. And he's not blind; he sees that her body language is much more open when she's talking to Nathan than it is when she's talking to him.

Still, he tries so hard to be the man she needs just then, trying to offer comfort, to be romantic and funny. It doesn't surprise him when it doesn't work, but it does surprise him when she sends him to London. He's not stupid, and he's not blind, but apparently he's also not what Audrey needs right now.

. . . . . .

She looks in the door and sees the three most important men in her life sitting together at the bar, and her eyes travel over each of them in turn.

Duke looks back at her, uncharacteristically sober, and smiles quiet support.

Chris faces away from the door, probably surprised and hurt that she wants him to leave but trying to be supportive.

Nathan is turned to the side, and somehow she knows he's about to turn her direction. And without meaning to she pulls out of sight; for reasons she doesn't want to understand, she can't look him in the eye right now.

* * *

><p>BONUS DRABBLE<br>AN: This is the first drabble I wrote for this series—in fact it's the one that inspired me to write all the rest—and now that I've actually caught up to it, I realize I can't put it in. I've tried very hard to be true to what I think the characters are thinking and feeling, and this drabble focuses instead on what I wish Audrey was thinking, and I just don't think it's true to where her character is emotionally just then. But I lurve it, and I want to put it in anyway; I just want you guys to understand that it doesn't fit in with the others.

. . . . . .

When Chris dies, she feels guilty she couldn't save him; isn't that all he's ever wanted from her?

When Duke dies, she feels regret for a life so bright and vivacious snuffed out before its time.

But when Nathan dies she's heartbroken, shattered, and the fear that the day might not reset steals her breath and leaves her trembling.

And when it's over and she's watching them at the bar, she knows the death she wouldn't have recovered from was not that of her friend or boyfriend but that of her partner. And she realizes things have just gotten complicated.

* * *

><p>AN: She'll get there, she really will. She just needs time. Also, if you've read through this very convoluted chapter, it's poll time! Which death in this episode do you find the most moving: the kid, Duke, Nathan, Chris, or Anson? I assumed I'd find it to be Nathan's, but in fact in this rewatch, it was Duke's death that nearly brought me to tears. I think it's Nathan's interaction with him that gets to me. What about you guys?<p> 


	7. The Tides That Bind

AN: I went back and forth on whether I was going to continue this fic now that the new season's out, but then I thought, what the hey, it's still fun to write.

Season 2 Episode 7, The Tides That Bind

. . . . . .

If Nathan could've watched himself argue with Duke in his office, he might have noticed how assertive and animated he became around his old friend, and he might have admitted that Duke was very like Audrey: both had the capacity to make him feel. Of course, with Audrey it was her touch, and joy and love, and with Duke it was exasperation, but for a man who'd been physically and emotionally numb much of his life, feeling anything was something of a miracle.

But it was better not to notice. It'd always been better to keep his distance from Duke.

. . . . . .

In retrospect, Nathan can see that the chief used to try to prepare him, in little ways, to someday be the chief himself—like how he'd take his young son to visit the Glendowers. But all that preparation feels useless now, because the old man never told him anything; the man had been incapable of opening his mouth and actually communicating. So now, as Nathan prepares to visit the Glendower complex, he can't decide if he's more grateful to his dad for what he tried to do or angry with him for all the things he never got around to.

. . . . . .

She knows she sometimes shocks Nathan with her disregard for the law, but she thinks that's good; he needs to be shocked occasionally. And she doesn't feel guilty for the infractions she commits as she helps the Troubled, because those laws were created by people who have no idea what she's up against. And it never occurs to her that maybe she's unconsciously pushing away the tenets of law enforcement because those belong to Audrey Parker, and instead is helping the Troubled at any cost because that mission is the only thing she's sure belongs to her and her alone.

. . . . . .

Sometimes she looks at her life and marvels at how a path can change.

Once she loved the Rev, believed in him, and at first she agreed when he said the Troubled were a blight on Haven.

But then he changed, got worse, and that's when Cole Glendower changed her mind about the Troubled and about herself. And here she stands in Cole's kitchen three decades later, not a Glendower by birth but proud to call herself one of them, to experience the wonder and sorrow of being part of that clan. She considers it a change for the better.

. . . . . .

Reverend Driscoll knows that he is a hard man. He thinks you have to be hard when you're fighting evil on the front lines. You have to be hard if you're going to make the hard choices, the hard sacrifices, to be willing to let people die for the greater good. Like the hand of a laborer, he has become calloused in his tireless toil against wickedness in Haven.

But then Penny appears—Penny, miraculously alive—Penny, who apparently hated him enough to fake her own death—and she pierces his defenses. And for one brief moment he is vulnerable.

. . . . . .

Mary doesn't think of it as she watches her son disappear into the cold Atlantic, but she's part of a long tradition of Glendower women who've stood on that shore over the centuries. What she does think of is the agony of love: that to love someone is to accept the things in them that will break your heart, and it's also to give them the power to do just that. And what she realizes, as the other Glendower women gather round and comfort her with trembling hands, is that each of these women feels just the same as her.

. . . . . .

The hardest thing is not knowing. That's what he remembers most from the last time he entered the water: constantly wondering if his loved ones were safe. And this time it's so much worse, now that the Rev knows the truth. But as he looks back at Gwen, he knows that the uncertainty of their time apart is a price he's willing to pay for the joy of their time together. And the memories of their past and the hope of their future give him the strength to turn away from her and face the darkness of that northern sea.

. . . . . .

A family split in two but united by secrets: they're talking about the Glendowers, but if there's a better description of the Wuornos men, Nathan hasn't heard it. At least the Glendowers will be reunited someday, unlike Nathan and the chief. At least the Glendowers understand what's happening to them. But then Audrey speaks gently of how they're following in Lucy and Garland's footsteps, and Nathan's expression softens. He'll never get his father back, but he has Audrey. Together maybe they'll figure out all the things Garland never told him. And together maybe they'll find the family they both lack.

. . . . . .


End file.
